All Hearts Are Broken
by itsonlyforevernotlongatall
Summary: Sherlock has one chance, John has to make a decision. Written as a part of the Johnlock Challenges gift exchange on tumblr, this is for thepuppetplayer, based on their prompt of 'infidelity'.


It had been four months since Sherlock's return to Baker Street, the good doctor was still finding it difficult to adjust to the taller man's presence again. Many mugs and plates had been shattered as proof, seven plates and five mugs to be exact, mainly due to Sherlock's sudden appearance startling John. It took the detective a fortnight to realize this, and he now moves around the flat, making as much noise as possible, to try and keep John alert to his whereabouts. Sherlock's new method works most of the time, but the odd plate or mug still gets shattered here and there. Upon Sherlock's return he had found John still living in Baker Street, despite the fact he was now married. Mary something or other. Sherlock didn't particularly care to remember her name, she wasn't anything but a hindrance to him, stealing away /his/ John's attention.

Most days John would venture out early, around nine. He'd be out all day, have dinner at Mary's home, then return to Baker Street, exhausted, limping, and leaning heavily on his cane around nine o'clock. Sherlock never asked the doctor what he done while he was out all day, a few times he tried to follow him, but the sight of Mary made his stomach churn, and his heart ache, so he gave up. John was free to love whomever he wished. If he was honest with himself, he had chosen to save John, and while the blond was grieving Mary must have been a great source of comfort to him. He was happy for that. Small blessings.

Sherlock only ever saw John for a few hours a day, an hour or so before the doctor left in the morning, and an hour or so before he limped up to his bedroom and locked himself away for the night. That was, until tonight. The detective was lying in bed, clad in only his thin cotton sleeping trousers, and an equally thin t-shirt, when he heard a distinct shuffling just outside his bedroom door. He turned in his head in the dim light that was streaming in through his bedroom window. He _knew_ it was John, but his body still tensed, ready to fight or run. Slowly, almost shyly, the bedroom door was pushed open, the creak sounding through the room, almost sounding unnaturally loud as it disturbed the silence. Sherlock didn't move from his place, lying on his back. Nor did John. The blond just stood in the door way, the light from the far end of the hallway setting a soft glow around his compact body. Slowly, Sherlock turned his face away, staring at his bare wall. He didn't turn his head back when he heard the shuffling of feet, or movement at the edge of his bed. Not even when he felt the mattress depress under the weight of a second body. The only movement he made, was to shift over slightly, so his flatmate was able to join him on the mattress, if that was what he so wished. God, he hoped it was. In the four months he'd been back they hadn't so much as shook hands. He had never been particularly big on physical contact, but after three years of being 'dead' running around Europe, killing, being shot at, destroying Moriarity's web, and himself to keep this man safe… God how he just wanted something as small, as simple as a hand shake. A brush of fingers against fingers. Anything would sedate him, as long as it was John Watson.

The covers were pulled back carefully and John's scent washed over him as the small doctor slid under the sheets beside him. The smaller body taking care not to brush past Sherlock's. Sherlock held his breath, waiting until the movement ceased before he turned his head to look at his companion. His breath hitched in his throat when he saw John's face. The man's eyes were red, blood shot. He'd been crying at some point tonight. The dark circles under his eyes told tales of sleepless nights, but despite the red eyes and dark circles, the doctor, in Sherlock's opinion never looked more handsome. More beautiful. This was raw, honest, feeling, caring, John. Sherlock's left hand twitched, as he rolled onto his side, aching to reach out and touch the tanned skin of John's face, but he couldn't bring himself to be the one to break their no touching rule. Their whole friendship, hung in the balance as it was. It was already strained, vulnerable, too precious to risk. His eyes flicked to the skin of John's throat, watching the Adam's apple there, bob as John swallowed nervously.

Sherlock knew that despite the dim-light of the room, this close John would be able to see his face too. The dark circles under his eyes, and the way his cheek bones seemed sharper, due to the hallows under them from accidently starving himself. Sherlock blinked slowly as he watched the Doctor force a small smile. "Do you know what tonight is?" Tired blue eyes flickered up to meet sharp, grey eyes as Sherlock blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. For the life of him, Sherlock couldn't think what John was speaking of. Tonight? John couldn't be asking the day of the week, could he? Surely not at a time like this. Didn't John work this morning? Yes, he did. He would have wrote the date and day of the week at least once today. Sherlock bit his lip and gave in, deciding that he had to answer eventually. Sherlock's voice was tired, thick with sleep, and slightly strained as he struggled to stay at a whisper. "Thursday?"  
Sherlock felt the bed shake slightly as John chuckled, but it wasn't the blonds usual laugh, it sounded horrible, almost hollow, empty. Sherlock decided he didn't like it . "It's the night I watched you die three years ago." John's voice was almost as hallow, and horrible sounding as his laugh, though to his credit, his voice didn't waver.

Sherlock remained silent after that revelation, he hadn't realized, but now that he thought about it, what John said, was true. He sucked in a deep breath, and moved his hand up out from underneath the covers. He placed his fingertips against John's cheek, stroking slightly. "John…" He struggled slightly, trying to find the right words. What was he supposed to say? He'd had a whole speech planned for his return, but John, wonderful John, had just accepted him back into his life without a glitch. Without demanding an apology. Sherlock had thought it too good to be true, and here was the proof. His friend was hurting, and he didn't have a clue where to start, how to try and make this situation any better. "I…" He trailed off again, starting to get frustrated with himself. Why couldn't he force the words out? Why couldn't he just _figure out the damn words he wanted to say._ Sorry I made you watch me die? Sorry I disappeared without a word for three years. Sorry I'm such a hopeless git when it comes to emotion and sentiment? He felt John stir under his fingers and he knew his hand had been on the blonds face for quite some time. Certainly more than was classified as normal between_ just friends._ Sherlock let his hand slip down to rest on the warm skin of John's neck. "I'm aware my words mightn't have the desired effect, but I am truly sorry for all that I put you though. I only had the best intentions in mind. You must believe that." His voice was strained, and he knew John would be able to hear it. The doctor had always been very observant when it came to other people's emotions, it was one of the many little things about the man, that made Sherlock's heart flutter, and his mind race.

Sherlock felt a huff of warm air in his face as John snorted at him. Too right, he supposed, after everything he'd put the man through the past three years. Hell, even before he 'died' he put John through hell, Sherlock had to be the world's most impossible flat mate. Though, the fact that John didn't make any move to remove the hand Sherlock still had on his neck, caused the detective to smile. He had a small surge of courage at that and reached under the covers, searching for one of John's hands. He heard the blond suck in a sharp breath as their fingers brushed, and he struggled slightly, unable to see what he was doing as he tried to lace their fingers. He managed in the end, with some assistance from John, surprisingly. "John?" He tried to coax the other into speaking, not understanding what the stretched silence between them meant. Sherlock had been about to pull away to turn the light on, when he heard John's breathing. It sounded, strange. Almost laboured. Oh. _Oh. You idiot._ John was crying. He was frozen to the spot, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Or how long John had been crying for. He clutched at the blonds hand desperately. Hoping against hell, that the gesture would be somewhat comforting. Sherlock frowned, starting to panic when John actually let out a little sob. His mind racing at hundred miles beyond it's usual pace, Sherlock lifted their joint hands out from under the duvet, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of John's hand, stroking his thumb over John's. He was muttering under his breath, hardly aware of the words escaping him, just hoping that they'd do something to stop his best friend from crying. "I'msosorryforleavingyouJohn. Pleaseforgiveme. Sayyou'llforgiveme. I'llmakeitbetter,Iswear. Tellmehowtomakeitbetter. Juststopcrying,formeplease. Yougotyourmiricle. Iloveyou."

Whether his confession had gone unnoticed by the doctor, or whether the doctor simply choose to ignore it, he wouldn't know. Sherlock hadn't even been aware of making the confession at the time, and he would remain unaware until he tried to dissect the situation later on. He was, however aware of some movement on John's behalf as a hand snuck out from under the duvet to wipe at his wet face. Of course, John would be ashamed or at the very least embarrassed that he'd broken down. He was a solider. He debated with himself mentally for a moment before speaking. "John? You don't have to suffer this in silence." He waited for anything the doctor had to say, slightly taken aback when instead of speaking, John leant towards him, pressing their lips together in a painful kiss. After a few seconds of remaining still, due to shock, Sherlock started to kiss the doctor back. Hands were soon roaming over thin t-shirts, fingers getting caught and snagging the material. Frustrated grunts, as shirts were torn off over heads, until they both lay on the mattress, shirtless and panting in the dark. "John?" Sherlock reached out in the dark, his fingertips brushing the outline of the scar on John's shoulder. No answer other than a startled gasp from the doctor. Curious, Sherlock let his hand trail down John's side, his fingers tightening around the doctors waist. There was no complaint, no indication that he should stop. So, he simply didn't. His hand slid down, over the thin, worn fabric of John's boxers, his hand just resting on the doctor's hip. In return, he could feel John's hand slipping down to the waist band of his pajama trousers, his thumb creeping under it, causing his abdominal muscles to quiver. Sherlock swallowed, moving so he was flat on his back, glad when John moved without any further prompting.

He felt the heat of John's body encasing him, as two powerful thighs straddled his waist, the small, skilled hands on his stomach. He swallowed again, with some difficultly, as John shifted, getting comfortable above him. He wasn't sure what the doctor was doing, what he was thinking. He couldn't even see the man's face in the dim light. But, the contact was very welcome, his small whimper ensuring John was aware of that fact. He knew his face was flushed, his respiration elevated, and he'd hazard a guess that his pupils were dilated too, judging by his pulse and the rush of blood southwards. Hesitantly, almost shyly, Sherlock rolled his hips upwards, brushing himself against John's crotch, pleased by the startled gasp that turned into a moan that fell from John's lips, and the hardness he felt within the confines of John's boxers. No words were needed as far as Sherlock was concerned and it seemed as though John thought much the same as they shifted together, until John was lying on top of him, chest to chest, crotch to crotch. A perfect, consistent pressure between their groins at all times, only increased by John's body weight. His mouth was open, ready to speak when John shifted, pushing his hips downwards against his own, forcing a strangled gasp turned moan from Sherlock's throat. He was able to feel the warmth of John's body though their clothing, and he closed his eyes, trying to focus on the sensations he was feeling, as he pressed up with his own hips, back arching slightly off the mattress. Too many clothes. He struggled to lift his head, placing a hand on the center of John's back to still him. His other hand slipping down the blond's back tugging at the waist band of the boxer shorts. The detective was pleasantly surprised when John lifted himself onto his elbows to allow for his shorts to be pulled away. Both John's shorts and Sherlock's bottoms were removed in a flurry of movement, then they were pressed together, naked, skin to skin , and the sensation tore a groan from both men as they started to rock against one another again. Not thinking about his movements, Sherlock angled his head so he'd be able to kiss John. The doctor jerked his mouth away, craning his neck, before leaning forward and hiding his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, his warm breath fanning out , and down Sherlock's bare chest as he panted, his hips never slowing.

Sherlock frowned slightly, trying to push the confusion and hurt down inside his chest when John pulled away from his mouth. Surely John _wanted_ this. The man was rubbing against him, for goodness sake! And he was fully erect! Sherlock moaned quietly in the back of his throat as John thrust down slightly harder. He gave his head a small shake, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus purely on the sensations caused by their bodies touching in all the most intimate places. It wasn't long before he felt his lower stomach coil, his heart speeding up, and his breathing rate increase again. He was incredibly close to his orgasm, and he could feel John's rhythm start to falter. His breathing came in short gasps as John continued to rub against him, his penis being caught between his stomach and the warmth of John's body as they moved together on the mattress.

Grunting, Sherlock moved his hands to grasp John's shoulders, his grip slightly too tight, and due to the darkness, he'd miss the way John cringed in pain as Sherlock's slender fingers dug into the scar tissue of his left shoulder. Sherlock tensed as his back arched, pushing his hips up against John in a final thrust as pleasure coursed through his body, causing his breath to catch in his throat, his muscles to strain in his legs, eyes to screw shut, as his body convulsed as he rode out his orgasm, semen spurting between their bodies, making their skin slick as John continued to grind down against him. As he lay boneless against the mattress, trying to catch his breath, it became apparent to the detective , that John wasn't going to stop until he'd reached his own orgasm. His breath caught in his throat as John's thrusts became painful on his over sensitive skin, but he didn't dare speak, for fear of ruining the moment. He had no idea what had brought it on in the first place, but it felt as though they were in a bubble, and any sudden vocalizations would burst it, and John would run. He was brought crashing back to reality when he felt John's body shake and something warm spilling between their bodies. Unable to help himself, he grinned into the darkness. Things were going to be just fine. They had this now. John just _proved_ how much he wanted Sherlock. Even if he hadn't spoken a word during it, Sherlock _knew. _ He allowed the blond to roll off him and slump onto the mattress, before he snaked a lazy arm around John's waist, his face in the smaller man's shoulder blades as he snuggled up behind him, ready to settle down for the night. He could feel their mixed semen drying on his stomach, which was starting to itch and become uncomfortable, but he was far too content with John sharing his bed, and drowsy from his orgasm to care, his shower could always wait until morning. Perhaps, John might join him.

The first thing Sherlock was aware of when he woke up was, that his stomach itched something terrible, that his sheets were also soiled. He grumbled and rolled over, only somewhat conscious that he ought to be embarrassed for having a wet dream at his age. Then he smelt it. He smelt John on his sheets. He sat bolt upright, the events of the previous night unfolding in his mind, a smile crossing his face. Perhaps the doctor had gone to shower. He wrapped the top sheet around his naked body and walked into the living room, calling for John, before checking the bathroom. The doctor _had_ showered the glass was wet, the mirror still slightly fogged, and the clean towels were missing. He wandered back into the living room, before walking into the kitchen, something on the table catching his eye. He walked over and picked it up. It was a note in John's neat writing.

_Sherlock,  
I'm sorry. Last night shouldn't have happened. It was a mistake.  
I'm married to Mary, and I love her. I'm not gay.  
You have no idea what you said to me, last night. Do you?  
Perhaps it's best you don't remember, for both of us.  
I've moved in with Mary again. I won't be back, I'm sorry.  
I won't be coming on any cases with you either.  
Please, don't text or call me.  
John._

Sherlock slumped down into a chair as he re-read the note, over, and over, and over, time and time again, until he could see the black ink on the stark white paper whenever he closed his eyes. How long he sat at that table, would be anyone's guess. He placed the note down on the kitchen table, running a shaking hand through his hair. A _mistake._ He frowned, biting down on the flesh of his bottom lip. Of course. He should have seen the signs. John kept the room in darkness, didn't speak, wouldn't kiss him, after the initial forceful kiss, and slept with his back to him all night. A small, sad smile crossed his face as he rose to his feet, taking the note with him as he returned to his bedroom, and sat on the mattress, before tucking it under his pillow. Turns out, Mycroft was right: Caring is not an advantage, in the end, all hearts are broken.


End file.
